


Richie Tozier Gets Off a Good One

by missbenzedrine



Series: catch ya later trashmouth [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bisexual Eddie Kaspbrak, Fluff and Angst, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, POV Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, glutton for angst, mostly just a series of imagined deleted scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 09:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21116627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbenzedrine/pseuds/missbenzedrine
Summary: Years ago, Richie laid it all out on the line for Eddie, only to have it all rejected like the green jello at an all you can eat buffet. Unwanted and, apparently, easily forgotten.Luckily, he forgot the boy who broke his heart. That is, until they locked eyes from across a small dining room in a Chinese restaurant some twenty years later. So now he had to face a demon clown and the guy who probably fucked up his ability to feel love for another human being all in the same day? Honestly, fuck this shit.





	Richie Tozier Gets Off a Good One

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is mostly just a small re-imagining of what might have happened between the scenes in Chapter 2, with a bit of backstory in the beginning. Everything from Chapter 2 can be assumed to happen as it is in the movie, aside from Eddie and Richie agreeing to stay with everyone else when Bev convinces them. They do that themselves here. 
> 
> I'm really shit at summaries, but I tried, and retried. I don't know that the tone of the summary matches the text? Lol idk. I just really like angst, and out of that, you get this wonderfully angsty thing that I've written. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The hammock creaked at them, straining under their weight as they swung slowly, back and forth, back and forth. Neither had said a word in what felt like hours. Really it had probably been two minutes. But it was so difficult, deciding on the right words to say when everything was changing around them.

“So I think I’m gonna be in one of those co-ed dorms,” Eddie said finally, breaking the unbearable silence.

“Really? That’s awesome, man. You’ll have to call and tell me about all the sweet ass you get,” Richie responded, not even trying to hide the small hint of desperation in his voice. _Call, Eddie. Please, god. Don’t forget about me. _

It was the tail-end of summer and the final bits of heat were wafting down into the old clubhouse, but, Richie thought, if you really paid attention, the first hints of crisp fall air were there. You just had to stop and notice them.

In just a little over an hour, Eddie would be getting into his already fully packed car, driving off to his fancy New York school, leaving this shit hole of a town behind. It was good. He deserved that, every bit of it. But here, when Eddie was facing him in the hammock that was oh-so small for them now, their legs effortlessly tangled together, Richie was having a lot of trouble expressing that he was happy for him. Suddenly he was wishing he hadn’t asked Eddie to come out here with him, spend his last hour or so with _him. _He should probably be making his rounds, saying goodbye to everyone, not wasting his time on Richie. But hey, Eddie had agreed. So here they were.

“Oh, you know I will, Tozier,” Eddie responded with a wink. It was an empty promise, though. Richie was smart enough to know that much. No one wanted to remember their hometown friends after they left. That was just reality. “But you know, I’ve been reading about this phenomenon. They call it the ‘Freshman Flu,’ it’s when everyone brings their germs onto campus and everyone, I mean, _everyone, _dude, gets sick. And like what am I supposed to do, I’ll have to quarantine myself—”

Richie’s hand instinctively curled around Eddie’s calf, which was resting between his own legs, squeezing gently as he cut him off mid-sentence. “Eds, you’ll be fine,” he told him, fixing him with a reassuring, steady look. “And if you get sick, you get sick,” he added with a shrug. “Don’t you dare quarantine yourself in your room the first few weeks of college. Then, when we’re together at night, your mom’ll be bugging me about ‘oh, I don’t think Eddie’s adjusting well,’ and—”

Eddie’s foot shoved way too close to his groin and Richie stopped, but had already started cracking up. “Beep beep, Richie, Jesus Christ.” Eddie rolled his eyes, but Richie didn’t miss the small smile that played on his lips. He also didn’t bother to remove his hand from Eddie’s leg. If Eddie minded, he didn’t say anything.

The hammock gave a worrying pop, and Richie looked to the studs, which definitely seemed strained, but, for the moment, were holding fast. “I’m kinda surprised this thing can hold us up still,” he said slowly.

“Nice going, asshole, you definitely jinxed it,” Eddie muttered, but didn’t make a move to get up.

“I just mean, with me being a total stud now, and all the new additions to your fanny pack,” Richie added, “It really seems to be holding its own.”

“It’s not—” Eddie groaned, rolling his eyes. “Richie, for fuck’s sake, I stopped carrying the fanny pack in like the ninth grade—

“Fanny pack_s_, plural, I think you mean,” Richie inserted, mostly unacknowledged.

“Will you give it a rest? And my _backpack_, with my emergency shit, which has, if you recall, helped you out of your fuck-ups on _multiple _occasions, is on the floor, jackass.”

“So I guess that just means we’re both getting fat, then,” Richie concluded.

“Or we’re both about a foot taller and went through puberty, so you’re not a gangly twig with like zero body mass anymore.”

“Ah, yes, compliments. That’s exactly what I was going for.”

“It wasn’t a compliment, dickwad, just an observation.” Richie tried not to pay too much attention to the blush that spread across the tops of Eddie’s cheeks.

Richie checked his watch, counting down the minutes in much the same way that he’d been counting down the days in the last couple weeks. Sure, he didn’t want to know that Eddie was going to be leaving in exactly sixty-four minutes, even earlier from here because he needed to say a last goodbye to his mother (Especially because he knew that Eddie would _not _leave any later. He had made that very clear, and, honestly, Richie wouldn’t expect any less. He needed to be in New York before dark, because even if he had a good sense of direction, he needed to be able to find parking and at least bring in his overnight bag and a set of sheets to sleep before he unpacked everything tomorrow morning. And New York was a _bitch _to drive in_, _Richie, so you couldn’t _really _expect him to leave any later than nine AM, right? Okay, fine, ten AM, just for you asshole.), but knowing helped to ground him. Just like knowing that they had one week helped him to figure out exactly how much time they needed to spend together in seven days. But now, sixty-four minutes just felt suffocating.

“Don’t think too hard, Rich, you might hurt yourself,” Eddie said, thankfully interrupting his thoughts. Richie granted him a grateful smile.

He opened his mouth, wanting words to come out, but all of a sudden, he was speechless. It was a rare occurrence for him. He turned the words over in his head. Normally he just said whatever came to mind, but this felt different. It felt important to say exactly what he meant. “Eddie, I—”

“If you’re about to get all sappy on me, Richie, I really don’t want to hear it,” Eddie cut him off, his voice teasing. Richie thought he was probably serious though. It didn’t matter, Richie needed to say what he was going to say, what he’d needed to say for a while now.

“Eds, I know, but I just need you to know… that us, o-our friendship, I mean, over the years—you just mean a lot--” Oh god, now he was just blubbering and it was bad. This was a bad path to go down. This was why he stuck to stupid raunchy quips and jokes, and saved the serious monologues for people like Bill and Stan. He refused to look at Eddie, as he shifted his weight in the hammock. And that was it, the poor old hammock gave its final deafening creak, before the stud on Eddies side completely cracked, dumping them both onto the ground in a cloud of dust. Richie landed half on top of Eddie, where Eddie had landed directly on his ass on the hard ground.

“Oh my god,” Eddie got out through a cough, trying to sit up under Richie’s weight. “This is absolutely disgusting. I should not have agreed to come down here with you. I mean, do you know how many dust mites and whatever-the-fuck are probably down here?”

Richie couldn’t help the small bubble of laughter that formed in his stomach, and before too long, he was laughing, hard, unable to control it as the chuckles wracked his chest. And after watching him with a disgusted kind of fascination for a second, Eddie couldn’t help but laugh too, leaving both of them gasping for air. Richie hadn’t moved, and when their giggles died down, he was left with Eddie just _right there_, inches from his face, and he leaned in and caught his lips in a kiss without giving it a second thought. And he heard Eddie’s breath catch, practically felt him stiffen up. But he could’ve sworn, that after a second, he relaxed, kissed back even, and that made every single nerve ending in Richie’s body light up.

He brought up a hand, to hold the side of Eddie’s face as he pulled back, gently, not really wanting to, but needing to. To finally say what he felt like he’d been trying to say for years.

“Eddie, I love you,” he whispered, his lips forming around the words naturally, thumb gently brushing over his cheekbone. The words just felt right on his tongue. They felt more true than just about anything he said on a daily basis.

And for a second that went on for about an eon too long, Eddie didn’t say or do anything at all. And Richie searched his face, for at least a clue, that he hadn’t just totally fucked up. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, so he slowly dropped his hand from Eddie’s cheek, into his own lap. And it was only then that he saw that he was wrong, there was something, in Eddie’s eyes, a deep, hidden shred of fear. And he felt his chest seize up, ready to exercise the flight mechanism that should have been natural. But he didn’t get to it first.

“I, um—” Eddie was moving, then, trying to stand up, but Richie was still mostly on top of him. _Fuck_. Richie got up, leaning back on his knees, giving Eddie space. Everything felt like it was coming down around him. God. He was stupid. He was so fucking stupid.

Eddie managed to stand up, quickly wiping off his clothes from the dust that covered them now. “I should go, probably. I mean, my mom…she wants to see me for a bit before I leave, a-and I actually mentioned to Stan that I might stop in for a quick goodbye.” He was grabbing his backpack from the ground, looking anywhere but at Richie, who was finally able to feel his legs enough to stand, though he wasn’t entirely sure that they would hold.

“Yeah, of course,” Richie said, his voice coming out weak and garbled. He coughed, clearing his throat, and took in a breath. “No, yeah, you, um, you should go.” 

Eddie stopped, then, finally bringing his eyes back to Richie, who stared back, hoping for something, anything. But not what he got. Eddie’s gaze was unreadable. Which only made Richie go absolutely fucking crazy trying to crack it. Was it pity? Or sadness? Or maybe even regret? Whatever it was, it wasn’t what Richie wanted.

“I’ll catch ya later, Trashmouth,” he said finally after the stagnant moment. And that was it. He climbed up the ladder, out of the clubhouse, and Richie was soul-crushingly, world-endingly alone.

And if he curled up on the clubhouse floor and hugged his knees to his chest and cried, well, he was alone, so no one had to fucking know.

* * *

About two months passed after Eddie and most of the rest of the Losers left Derry behind for college. There were no calls, no stupid postcards or messages left over voicemail. Everyone was just gone. Everyone except Mike. And Mike and Richie would hang out a bit at first, but it always felt wrong, like they were holding on to something that just wasn’t there anymore.

Though Richie was fairly smart, he’d never had the best grades, and so he was left trying to figure something else out, other than the college route most of his friends were taking. So when an acquaintance of his from Bangor told him that Los Angeles was the place to be if you wanted to make it as a comedian, Richie had given a shrug and a ‘why not?’ Sure, it was a huge move, but there was nothing holding him to Derry anymore anyway.

And honestly, he was more than happy to get his mind off of that utter _mistake _he’d made in the clubhouse that morning. His mind off of _him._Because it wasn’t healthy to cry over spilt milk. And hell, he was Richie fuckin’ Tozier, and he knew that he could probably have plenty of hot California girls out there anyway. The whole thing had really been stupid, just a horribly unfortunate misreading of dynamics.

So, he eventually left as well, packed up in a van and headed out west. And when he left, everything just kind of faded away. And he stopped thinking about the boy in the clubhouse, with his curly dark hair and freckles that Richie probably could have, at one time, mapped out with his fingertips. He forgot about the boy who broke his heart.

_He forgot about everything._

* * *

Richie tugged on a Hawaiian shirt that was relatively clean (he thought) as he stared in the mirror, making faces at himself. He pulled off his glasses and cleaned the right lens with the bottom of his tshirt. He could just barely make out the restlessness of the crowd out in the auditorium. “Oh! Hey, LA,” he muttered to himself in mock practice, pushing his glasses back onto the brim of his nose. “Boy, have I got a show for you tonight! Let me tell ya, it’s gonna be low-brow, self-deprecating, and at times, probably even a little bit depressing. But hey! That’s what you’re here for, right?” This time, when he looked in the mirror, the weight of his own age settled onto his shoulders like a discomforting weighted blanket. He took a swig from the scotch that was sitting on his vanity and then stretched his arms over his head, mouthing along with the just barely audible chanting from the crowd. “Trashmouth, Trashmouth…”

He practically jumped out of his skin when his phone started to vibrate, from somewhere. God. He was always misplacing that little fucker. He managed to triangulate its location to the crack in the sofa cushions and grabbed it, frowning at the screen: _Unknown._

“Heeello, you’ve reached Richie Tozier, what can I do ya for?” he answered, half grateful for the interruption from his pre-show anxieties.

“Richie, it’s Mike.”

“Alright, Mike, I’m gonna be honest with you, I’ll probably need a bit more information than that,” he said, mostly just to mess with the guy. Spam callers. He loved ‘em. He took a seat in his vanity chair, perching his feet up on the surface and polishing off his scotch. “If this is a stalker thing, I can give you a hotline to call where you can actually get a lock of my hair delivered to your house. Free shipping.”

“It’s Mike Hanlon, Rich. From Derry.”

The empty glass shattered as it hit the linoleum floor, the sound ringing through the small room.

“You okay, Richie?” Mike’s voice was far off, tinny, a million miles away.

“Oh! Mike. Mikey! Of course I remember,” Richie said quickly, unable to hide the shake in his voice as he stood up. Someone was already knocking on the door to come in and clean the glass. He let him in. “How /are/ you, man?” He was shaking, all the way from his fingertips to his toes as he started to pace across the small room. “It’s so, uh, good to hear from you…”

“It’s okay, Richie. You don’t have to bother with the niceties.” There was a pause on the other end, just dead air. Richie already knew what was coming. “It’s back. Time to come home.”

“Alright, well, so nice talkin’ to you, old chap,” Richie said, nervously slipping into his old, honestly subpar British guy accent from when he was a kid. God, he hadn’t done that in ages. “But unfortunately, I’m feeling a bit under the weather, and—” He felt his stomach churning, and knew without a doubt that he was going to upchuck everything he’d eaten that day, and accordingly sprinted to the nearest emergency exit.

* * *

Richie hadn’t remembered Eddie when Mike called, or on the plane ride over, or even once he’d arrived in Derry. He didn’t remember Eddie until their eyes locked in the small dining room in the Chinese restaurant. And it was only now, as he paced in his hotel bedroom, debating whether or not to get the hell outta dodge, that he allowed himself to actually remember. Remember everything. Eddie leaving him, broken-hearted and alone in the clubhouse that morning before he left for school. The way that Eddie’s lips had felt against his, for even just a moment.

But that was all old news, and not worth dwelling on, he told himself, anxiously pacing across his hotel room floor, one shaking hand holding a drink like it was the lynchpin holding him together.

Right now, the _only _important thing was figuring out whether or not he was going to let himself die in this town. And for what?

He jumped when he heard a knock on his door, splashing whiskey all over the carpet. “Fuck,” he muttered, and wiped himself off a bit as he went to answer it, only to find a nervous, twitching Eddie Kaspbrak behind the frame. “Can I come in?” Eddie’s voice was short, hurried, as he shifted from foot to foot in front of him.

Richie only nodded, stepping aside as Eddie barreled into the room, taking broad steps, and huffing out his breath like he’d just finished up a marathon. “I—I just don’t know, man. Should we stay? Should we go?”

Richie shook his head, sipping his drink. “I don’t know, Joe. Maybe we should just rock the Casbah.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, confused, before letting out a groan as his eyes flashed with realization. The ensuing eyeroll just made Richie feel like he was sixteen again. “God. You really haven’t changed, have you? Jesus Christ. Can we have a serious conversation about the fact that we’re probably going to fucking die here, man?”

Richie’s eyes widened and he looked around the room, suspicious. “Why? Did you get a bad feeling about the front counter lady, too? Shifty eyes, am I right?”

Eddie’s face fell flat and he made for the door. “Okay, asshole. Clearly I forgot how difficult it is to have a conversation with you—”

Richie grabbed his wrist, stopping him before he could open the door. “C’mon, Eds, I’m joking.” He let go of his wrist quickly once Eddie had stopped. Couldn’t hold on too long. “I’m scared out of my fucking mind, man.”

Eddie watched his face, scanning, probably trying to find some hint that Richie was still fucking with him. He didn’t find it, and his shoulders seemed to relax. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay, good. So we’re on the same page, then…”

“Yeah,” _for once. _He gave a small laugh to himself and Eddie raised an eyebrow. When Richie didn’t say anything, he let it go, moving on.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie said, the words measured. Richie recognized this thoughtfulness, the careful planning. It was a memory from a past life, but right then, it felt like he’d watched Eddie in his little red track shorts and pastel polo, do this exact same song and dance yesterday. It was fucking uncanny. “So,” he continued after a long moment. “The next question is, do we leave tonight? Or tomorrow? Because you’ve, clearly, had a few drinks, and I am not a huge fan of driving at night—”

“I could drive, no problem.”

Eddie frowned, cocking his head at him. “Again. Let’s stay serious here, Rich. Chances of getting in a car accident at night are significantly higher. And my anxiety levels are through the fucking roof right now, so that’s definitely not helping anything and—”

Richie stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Eddie. Jesus fuck, man. Let’s just stay the night then. We’ll leave first thing, alright?” He didn’t know if it was the booze or what, but he wasn’t quite as eager to get out of there as he had been. Maybe it was the thought that as soon as they got to the airport, Eddie would hop on the soonest flight to New York and he’d probably never fucking see him again. Or maybe it was something else. Yeah. Probably something else.

“Okay, yeah, okay, we can do that,” Eddie said, nodding. He glanced over at Richie’s hand which still hadn’t left his shoulder, and raised an eyebrow. Richie quickly dropped his hand and looked away, taking the last sip of his drink.

“So, the bar downstairs is totally unattended, and I am an unofficially licensed bartender,” Richie said quickly, quirking an eyebrow at him. “I’m told I make the absolute crappiest Old Fashioned in all of LA.”

That pulled a laugh out of Eddie, who seemed to relax a bit and head for the door. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Richie, I never saw you as a Los Angeles guy.”

“Yeah, I’ll be honest with you, Eds, I never did either,” he said as he walked down the stairs. The foyer was dark, everyone having settled into bed already. Whether any of them were actually going to get sleep that night was probably a different question. “But…I think it actually ended up suiting me pretty well. Plenty of loose women and endless bar tabs. I’m a simple man, Kaspbrak. I never asked for more.” He went over and took his position behind the bar, finding the whiskey bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shake of Eddie’s head. “What?” Richie asked with a half-smile.

“Oh nothing.” Eddie chuckled, mirthless and, if Richie wasn’t mistaken, a little self-satisfied as he took a seat across from Richie at the bar. “I just probably could have predicted your future to a T, Rich.”

Richie’s hand tightened on the bottle and he gritted his teeth, pouring himself a glass. “What’ll it be, Eds?” he asked, not trying to hide the cold edge to his voice.

“I’ll take a martini, if you think you can handle that.”

“Oh, I can handle anything.” He found a shaker behind the bar and prepped a martini glass. No olives, though. Eddie would just have to live. “So what you’re saying, is that you always pegged me for an alcoholic bachelor with a penchant for shit comedy? Is that what I’m getting, Eddie?”

“No, no,” Eddie said quickly, his face going red. He didn’t look at Richie’s face directly, watching his hands as he made the martini instead. “Fuck, Rich, when you say it like that—”

“So that is what you thought?” His hands shook slightly as he poured the mixture into the glass, sliding it across the bar to Eddie, who bit his lip, not saying a word. “Because if we’re being honest, you marrying your mother isn’t too far off base from what I thought, either.”

“That’s not fair,” Eddie said and brought his eyes up to Richie’s, pain hidden somewhere in them. And it was that look that triggered some long-forgotten instinct that made Richie shut up.

Richie traced the rim of his own glass solemnly, looking down. “Sorry, Eds, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah. You did. That’s okay.”

The silence sat heavy between them, and for a long moment, Richie wondered if this was just it, then. They’d grown up, they weren’t _them_anymore. Which honestly, what more had he expected? To just jump right back in like he was seventeen and cuddle up with Eddie like they’d never left? No, this…this was normal, actually. Most people never even saw their old high school friends again except at reunions that he’d never intended to go to anyway. And when they did, it went something like this. Awkward silences and obligatory catching up.

“I mean,” Eddie’s voice was cautious, slow. “I did always know that your stand-up would be shit.” 

Richie raised an eyebrow, watching his face. It was a question, he realized, not a statement. He cracked a smile and let out a small laugh, which was followed by another, and soon he was laughing like he _was _sixteen again and Eddie was too.

“That was probably a given, though,” Richie said finally as their laughter died out, and he was left wiping his eyes under his glasses. He slowly moved back around the bar, taking a seat on the stool next to Eddie.

The conversation morphed, then into something natural, and _them. _And it just felt right falling into their rhythm of banter and jabs, laughing with each other. And if he noticed when Richie caught himself staring a bit too long at the way Eddie’s hands moved when he talked or re-memorizing the color of his eyes, Eddie certainly didn’t say anything.

“Alright, last drink,” Richie said after a while, standing up and walking around the bar. “And then we should both try and get some shut eye.”

“Sounds like a plan, St—” Eddie stopped, pursing his lips, his eyes flashing. 

“It’s okay,” Richie said, understanding. “We can’t tiptoe around it.”

Eddie didn’t speak for a moment, the look in his eyes deep, and Richie wished he could step in there, figure out what was going on inside his head. “I know, it’s just…there’s this part of me, that feels like it could have just as easily been me. In that bathtub.”

And Richie looked at him, the admission sitting there between them, waiting to be acknowledged. God, there were so many things there, still sitting in that space between them, waiting to be acknowledged.

“I think it could have been any of us,” Richie said finally. He poured the drinks without really thinking about it, his hands going through the motions more quickly than before.

“Yeah, sure, but like, not really?” Eddie responded. “Bill definitely wouldn’t have. Or Ben. And Bev is tough as nails. Mike wouldn’t have because he was the one holding this whole shitshow together. That leaves us.”

“That leaves us,” Richie repeated, his voice slow, as he slid the martini across the bar.

“Would _you _have?”

Richie weighed the question out, trying to figure out his options. “I didn’t,” he said finally. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Sure, maybe on some level. But I don’t know that it is.” He brought the glass to his lips, made a face. “This one is dryer.”

Richie didn’t respond, just brought his whiskey back around, sitting back down in his seat. “Yeah. Maybe it isn’t.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about how…my life doesn’t seem worth going through all this shit, you know? If Stan couldn’t do it, what makes me think that I’ll last? If Bev is right, and this shit is going to eat us up inside…I’ll be the next one to go. No doubt about it.”

“No. No way. It’d be me,” Richie said confidently. “I’m halfway there most of the time anyway.”

“What and you think I’m not?” Eddie said, and it was the raw, utterly honest quality in his voice that made something in Richie’s chest break open painfully. 

“Eds…”

“Don’t-- don’t _Eds _me, Rich. I don’t need your pity, okay? I’m just thinking out loud.”

Richie stayed quiet, then, watching Eddie’s face as he took three large gulps from his martini, finishing it off.

“I need another one,” he said.

“I thought we were—”

“Jesus Christ, Richie, just get me another fucking drink.” Just as Richie started to stand though, Eddie shook his head. “No, you know what, fuck that. I’ll just do a shot.” And then, as Richie watched with wide eyes, Eddie walked around the bar and put out two shot glasses, filled them with vodka, and downed both of them, before Richie could even think of anything to say.

He didn’t need to say anything, though, because Eddie started to talk, every word seeming to drain something out of him. “You’re not wrong, you know? I did marry my fucking mother. Guess I just didn’t get enough of that bullshit when she was alive. Even with Myra, it’s always, ‘Eddie, what’s that rash?’‘Eddie, why didn’t you take all _six_of your pills this morning?’ and ‘_Eddie,_be careful on the way to work, you never know when an eighteen wheeler is gonna mow you over and fucking kill you.’” He was laughing, every word coming out a little bit more strained, seeming to add a brick to the tension in his shoulders. “I mean, fuck. Sometimes I wish it just would already. You wanna know why I used that goddamn inhaler so long, Rich? Because I’ve been suffocating under that fucking shit my whole life. But you guys never realized that, did you? You never realized just how bad it was, whiling away in that house, with her.”

“I realized, Eds,” Richie said, his voice quiet, not sure if he really had a place in this monologue, or if he should just let Eddie talk. 

“Sure. Yeah. But you didn’t _get _it, Rich. How could you? It was too insane. I mean, having the one person, who’s supposed to love you, be there for you, protect you, be the person who also makes you afraid of everything. It’s fucked, man. And I’ve been through enough therapy now, to know just how fucked it is. And I’m never going to be able to get out of that cycle of self-hatred and fear and—”

Richie was standing as soon as he saw the first shimmer in Eddie’s eyes, walking around the bar, and by the time Eddie actually started crying, Richie had pulled him into his arms, one hand going to the back of his head. “Hey, stop,” he said quietly. Eddie’s body stiffened up for just a second at the embrace, before leaning in, head resting on his chest. “I know, Eddie. I know it was hard…still is.” He gently combed his fingers through Eddie’s hair, shorter now than it was when they last saw each other, but the same.

A split second passed between Richie holding Eddie against his chest, and what happened next. Eddie had pulled away just an inch or so before Richie suddenly felt Eddie’s lips pressed against his own, and his eyes shot open. It took him a second to register what was happening, and as soon as he could wrap his thoughts around the situation, he pulled away.

His voice, when he spoke, sounded cold, dry to his own ears. “What are you doing?” The question sat there, begging a response, needing some kind of explanation. Because Eddie looked…well, he looked crazed, like he was breaking some kind of rule, coloring outside the lines. And Richie sure as fuck wasn’t about to be some kind of moment of weakness experimentation. No siree, he’d gone through that phase in college, and he had no intention of going back.

Especially not with Eddie.

Eddie’s response, though, was so much worse. “Isn't this what you want, Rich? Because I'm ready. I'm ready to play along.”

“Play along? Wh--do you think this was some kind of _game_ to me?” Richie practically spat, taking a wide step backwards, running into the bar, a wine glass shattered on the floor, but he didn’t look away from Eddie’s gaze. And once again, he was left feeling cold, split open in front of Eddie, his innards spilling out before them. 

“Sorry, fuck, Richie, that’s not—“

He felt his blood boiling, rage curling in the pit of his stomach. _Fuck _this shit. Honestly. “You think I was just getting off a good one that day?” he growled, his voice cracking as he tried to keep some semblance of sanity to his tone. “Just fuckin' around with you for laughs? _Hm, you know what would be fun?__To put my heart out on the line and then watch Eddie stomp on it like a goddamn bug._You think that sounded _fun _to me, Eddie? I meant what I said that day. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t for shits and giggles. I meant it.” The last words came out different, desperate, almost and he hated them as they rolled off his tongue, hated himself for still being able to get worked up about this twenty-some years later.

“Richie—”

“Nah, fuck it. I can’t do this, okay? Not again,” he paused, his head shaking as he pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “I’m going to bed. You should too.”

And with that, he turned around and walked toward the stairs. By the time his bedroom door shut behind him, he was fighting back tears he didn’t even know he was capable of anymore.

* * *

He couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning until he felt like he was going to pull his hair out from the madness of it all. He couldn’t imagine leaving, getting in the car, and then the airport, hopping on the next plane to LA. It didn’t feel like a real possibility, and the shear impossibility of it was what scared him the most. Maybe this was it. Maybe they really were _destined _to fucking do this thing.

The knock on his door this time was soft, cautious, not the restless determined one from the last time. He stood up to answer and there Eddie was again, an old pair of pajama pants on his hips and a tshirt that read “Marathon for the Cure,” in fading orange letters across his chest. He couldn’t help but wonder what the Cure was for.

“I can’t sleep,” Eddie said.

_What the fuck do you want me to do about it, _Richie held back, literally biting his tongue.

“Look, I-I know you’re mad. And this sounds insane, but--” Eddie sighed. “I’m going crazy thinking about this shit, Rich. And I know you are too. And I just…I wish we could be back to normal,” he said, his voice resigned.

Richie stood, silent for a long moment, running responses through in his head, until he landed on, “What the fuck even is normal for us?” Because, in all honesty, he didn’t know anymore.

And at that, Eddie raised an eyebrow, taking a step forward. He reached out and grabbed Richie’s hand, squeezing lightly, before wrapping his arms around Richie’s middle as a kind of response. And oh. _Oh, right. _This was normal. This was them. Richie let the air out of his lungs, wrapping his arms around Eddie and pressing his nose into his hair. “I can’t sleep either,” he finally admitted, his eyes closed as he just let the old familiar scent of _Eddie _wash over him. And sure, now it was mixed with other scents, aftershave and maybe some kind of new skin crème. But it was still Eddie, through and through. And god, he could drown in that fucking scent.

“I think we need to stay.” Eddie’s voice, muffled against Richie’s shoulder, was sure of itself, and Richie couldn’t help the shiver that ran through his body. “I think we need to stay and see it through, Richie. We can’t let It ruin our lives.” He felt Eddie’s fingers curl into his tshirt at his back and after a moment, he nodded.

“Yeah, okay. We’ll kill this fucking thing, Eds.”

His fingers found Eddie’s after a while and he tugged him toward the bed. And when they ended up, legs tangled together under the sheets and arms wrapped around each other, it was an unspoken agreement to just _be, _to be them, what they always were.

And somewhere in the dark stillness of the room, Richie’s lips found Eddie’s, or maybe Eddie’s found his, he couldn’t tell. But it was as real and honest as the tears that Richie wiped from Eddie’s cheek when he tasted the salt on his own lips.

“Sh, Eddie, stop,” he whispered, pushing his hands into his hair, cradling his head.

“I’m sorry, Richie.”

“Don’t apologize.” He brushed his thumb over Eddie’s cheekbone, holding him close – holding him like he had that morning, on the clubhouse floor.

“I was just scared, Richie. I knew you meant it. I was just scared.”

“I know, baby. I know. It’s okay.”

Eddie nodded and pressed his lips to Richie’s again, conveying all of those unspoken feelings that Richie had wanted there for so long. And eventually, they each drifted off, wrapped up in each other, waiting for what the next day would bring. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, stay tuned, I'm probably going to post Eddie's POV in the next couple of days or so. I already have most of it written, I just have to add a few things and edit it up. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


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